There are some stories that the novel never tires of, and that we never tire of reading. The story of the young man or woman of talent stuck in a provincial backwater, coming to terms with the extent to which their real life is here, and not elsewhere, was not new when Stendhal wrote his great novels. And yet, it always is new, because that is the thing about stories.
Because he suffers from sickle-cell anaemia, Mamo stays at home when his twin Lamamo runs away to be a soldier in Africa’s many wars, and even his on-and-off beloved Zara goes to South Africa for the last years of apartheid. His illness means he leaves university without a degree, and he tries to teach history in an under-funded local school before becoming court historian to the local potentate. Along the way, he tries to do good, and does little harm, as drought, corruption, sectarian violence and dynastic intrigue go on around him; and he develops a theory of history that makes this fairly self-centred young man pay attention to his relatives and neighbours.
His story is also the story of Lamamo, who witnesses terrible things and is for a while at least complicit in them. If, to a degree, they represent the active and the examined life, this is never so schematic as to be annoying because both, in their different ways, have to live with consequences.
This is a wonderful novel of provincial African life: funny, tragic, and, occasionally, delicately sexual. Its gentle mockery of ambition is a quietly powerful rebuke to the standard histrionics of many other novels which are less insightful about poverty, underdevelopment and war.
